The Long War 02 - The Dark Blood (18 page)

The keening continued. The troll was enormous and, as it came closer, the young warrior saw the talon-like claws extending from each of its bulbous limbs. The beast was covered in thick black and grey fur and seemed bloated rather than muscled. Though vaguely human in shape, it walked with all four limbs, using its claws to gain purchase in the snow.

It was close now and the young thain was beginning to feel panic. He knew he couldn’t run, as the troll would catch him before he’d travelled ten paces, and fighting was clearly out of the question. His only hope was that the troll would pass by without noticing him. The trolls of Fjorlan were notoriously dim-witted, with no real sense of smell, hearing or direction. Magnus used to tell his nephew stories about ancient Ice Men who would die when they chased troublesome birds over the edge of a cliff.

The keening stopped and Alahan held his breath. Chancing a look out from his place of concealment, he saw the troll standing no more than ten paces away. He could see its face now and had to suppress the urge to simply scream and run away. The beast had a small face compared with the rest of its body, and its jewel-like green eyes shone slightly in the glare. It had thick lips coated in spittle and two large tusks pointing upwards through the dense fur covering its face. Its forehead was wide and creased into an exaggerated display of emotion. Something had alerted the troll and it looked around the gully, rubbing its eyes with its enormous paws as a child might do when tired or confused.

Some stones from the outcropping rolled down the gully to stop in front of the troll, followed by the slowly moving figure of Timon the Butcher. The berserker was making no effort to remain hidden and he moved deliberately towards the troll. Alahan swore under his breath, but made no move for fear that he would be seen. He doubted that even a berserker of Varorg could best so large a troll.

The troll hunkered down on the snowy ground and looked at Timon. It made no move to attack, but looked interested in the strange being that had appeared before it. Timon had taken the leather strapping off his head and the misshapen bulges were bleeding slightly as he approached the troll. In their own way, both were beasts, and Alahan felt as if he had wandered into a bizarre nightmare. The berserker held a small pouch in his fist and the troll’s enormous nostrils twitched, catching a familiar scent. Timon slowly untied the pouch and shook a small amount of a dusty crystalline substance into his palm, before placing the pouch back in his belt and stepping closer to the troll.

All was quiet for a moment as Alahan, Timon and the troll stopped still. Then, with slow movements, the berserker raised his palm to his nose and sniffed in a quantity of the crystals, immediately rearing up as if he’d had freezing-cold water thrown over him. The troll moved as well, but not aggressively, and Alahan wondered what the berserker had snorted. The two beasts regarded each other for a moment longer – Timon twitching and blinking rapidly, the troll clawing at the snow and crouching so as to be at eye level with the berserker. Then, in a gesture that nearly made Alahan laugh, the troll embraced Timon. It was a huge movement in which the berserker practically disappeared within the thick fur of the troll. As the beast playfully patted Timon on the head, Alahan realized that the troll thought of the berserker as one of its own kind rather than a man.

The two of them sat on the snowy ground, pawing at each other as equals. Despite their difference in size, Timon gave as good as he got, even going so far as to mimic the keening sound trolls habitually made when wandering.

Alahan relaxed as he watched the strange ritual before him and almost didn’t notice the other shapes appearing out of the snow. He moved quickly back against the rocks as half a dozen more trolls appeared at the southern edge of the gully and slowly meandered towards Timon. The berserker had seen them and showed no sign of alarm as the family of Ice Men approached. The young man of Fredericksand turned away, feeling exposed in sight of so many trolls, but no violence seemed likely to erupt and so he moved slowly back along the gully, with a vague plan to circle round the encounter and continue south. Timon would have to catch him up when he’d finished pretending to be troll.

‘What a strange week I’m having,’ murmured the young Thain to himself.

CHAPTER 7

The streets of Canarn were dark, with just enough breeze to remind Nanon that he was next to the sea. He glanced above him and saw the tower of the World Raven close by, indicating that he was near to the town square. He’d turned off the Brown Road that led to Brother Lanry’s chapel and had taken a number of quick lefts and rights until he was well and truly lost among the back streets of the city. The roads here were narrow and the buildings loomed in over the Dokkalfar’s head, pleasingly reminding him of the forest.

He smiled – a thin expression that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He was conducting an experiment that Bromvy, the new lord of Canarn, had assured him was
simply stupid
and the forest-dweller was determined to prove his friend wrong.

He took a short run-up and vaulted over a wall and on to a nearby rooftop. Crouching down, he surveyed the dark buildings of Canarn, looking for any balconies or flat roofs within jumping range. There were a few likely candidates, but most would leave him open to the sea breeze and with not enough cover to remain unseen from below. Above, the black raven provided an easy reference point, but Nanon frowned at the lack of other tall buildings in the town. The lord marshal’s office had been destroyed a month or so before, but he had been assured by Bromvy that when it was rebuilt it would be a large building with all manner of climbing and jumping potential. However, all that remained for now was a pile of rubble.

The Dokkalfar got as low to the stone roof as he could, before rolling backwards and landing within a walled garden. As his feet touched grass, he felt a wave of pleasure shoot up his slender body. It reminded him that these men of Ro were not completely oblivious to nature. They had a strange view of grass, trees and rocks, though, and considered nature their servant, something to be bent to their will. There were trees and green areas within Canarn, but all were well tended and lacking in natural beauty. Even with so many Dokkalfar in the city, the natives were reluctant just to let the grass grow, as if they feared it would somehow take over the town. Nanon respected this view up to a point – he knew how terrible nature could be when left unchecked – but he also lamented the loss of the wild within these stone walls.

His experiment had not, so far, been a success, and Nanon grumbled to himself. He would have to admit that the lord of Canarn was probably right – it was not possible simply to live in a town as you would in a forest.

He wasn’t being, as Bromvy had put it, a naive idiot, but rather he was trying to find a way for his people to adapt to life in the city. He was more worldly than others of the Dokkalfar, and he felt an obligation to help them settle in. However, he had had limited success and, as he turned to exit the small garden, the Tyr saw dozens more forest-dwellers dotted across the rooftops and walls as they, too, tried in vain to adapt to Canarn.

He tilted his head and looked skywards. Nanon could feel his people’s uncertainty flowing through the city, and each new Dokkalfar that came to Canarn added to their sense of confusion. The Dokkalfar shared a racial memory that allowed the more powerful among them to feel the pain and emotional distress of others, and Nanon was more attuned to it than most. The Dokkalfar had come here at the behest of their Vithar shamans to bolster Canarn’s strength and to prepare the city to receive refugees from Tor Funweir, but they had adapted only slowly and found the pace of human life difficult to comprehend.

Nanon was different. He had spent much of his long life among men and, because of his short stature, had managed to blend in, in a way that the larger of his kind could never hope to achieve. He had learnt much from Bromvy and, before him, Rham Jas Rami, and he had become adept at understanding humans. He was even beginning to laugh at their jokes because he understood them, rather than pretending to do so in order to fit in. Tyr Nanon puffed out his cheeks, mimicking a human expression of weary frustration, and decided that he would walk back to the keep rather than jump across the rooftops.

It was a pleasant enough night and he found the smells of Canarn constantly surprising, a strange cocktail of odours, most of which he was unable to identify. Crossing back towards the Brown Road, Nanon saw the dark profile of Lanry’s chapel next to the main square. The Brown cleric was not currently in residence, having been sent north by Bromvy in an effort to find news of his sister, Bronwyn, and of the progress Wraith Company was making towards South Warden. Bromvy had not yet made a decision about the long-term allegiance of Canarn, except that the city would no longer bear the prefix
Ro
. Bromvy did not call himself duke, preferring
lord of Canarn
when the need for a title arose. Nanon knew, too, that the young man of Ro was still uncomfortable with the title
Black Guard
.

Nanon strolled casually towards the town square, taking note of the newly rebuilt homes and businesses. Most were closed, but he knew the human citizens of the city were pleased to have Canarn back to something like its former self. The few taverns that were still open late at night were quiet, with only a scattering of patrons and no Dokkalfar. The forest-dwellers had no real concept of taverns, and the drinking of alcohol was a curiously human habit.

He moved across the square and headed for the lowered drawbridge which led to the keep. A month ago, when he had first come to the city, the square had been full of funeral pyres and was being used by the bastard mercenaries as a playground where they could indulge their passion for rape and murder. The square had now been cleared and a sizeable memorial was already half built in the centre. The statue would be of a longsword, a leaf blade and a hammer, all rising above the spread wings of a raven in flight, symbolizing the three peoples who had fought and died to reclaim the city of Canarn. The Ro, the Ranen and the Dokkalfar made a curious alliance, but Nanon was proud to be able to call an increasing number of humans his friends.

At the base of the drawbridge were two guardsmen, men of Ro elevated to positions of authority following the battle. They wore ill-fitting chain mail and held crossbows, but their demeanour was casual. Both men smiled warmly as Nanon approached and the Dokkalfar tried his best to mimic the strange expression.

‘You’re still not quite getting it, my lord,’ said one of the men, barely containing his laughter at Nanon’s attempt at a smile. ‘It just looks wrong somehow... maybe it’s the black eyes.’

Nanon enjoyed the playful familiarity with which the humans addressed him.

‘Hmm, I think I just need more practice,’ he replied, thrusting his hand out enthusiastically.

‘And you don’t need to shake hands with every man you pass, my lord,’ said the second man. ‘A
hello
is often enough.’

Nanon considered it. ‘But I like shaking hands. It’s a nice way to bond with people. We don’t really have any kind of ritual touching like that, so it’s quite refreshing.’

Both men baulked at the term
ritual touching
, before looking at each other and shrugging. ‘Okay, my lord,’ said the first man, ‘let’s shake hands.’

Nanon tried to smile again as he grasped each man’s hand in turn and shook it vigorously. ‘There we go, I feel like we’re all becoming good friends.’

As he walked away, the Tyr heard confused comments from the men of Canarn and wondered how long it would take before the interaction between man and Dokkalfar became second nature. He liked them, but he had to confess that many of his people did not and that it would be a struggle to integrate the two populations of Canarn.

Within the keep, all was quiet and he was sheltered from the sea breeze as he walked towards the wooden stairs that led to the great hall. The courtyard had been the site of the funeral pyres a month ago, but the remains of the dead were now gone. Father Magnus, Tyr Rafn and two dozen Dokkalfar had been burned.

Nanon paused for a moment next to the blackened ground where so many had died and felt the spirits of the dead whirl and dance in the night air. He could sense each one of them, as if they were looking at him from far away, and he closed his eyes the better to commune with the spirits of his dead brethren. Each face came to him, followed by their names and the manner of their deaths. Most had fallen at the edge of a longsword, though some had been beaten to death or skewered with other weapons.

He breathed in deeply and raised his head to feel the breeze over his face, before opening his eyes and returning to the present. He felt guilty at not being able to feel the dead humans. He knew that many of them had died – certainly more than the Dokkalfar – in the initial assault to retake the city, and Nanon wished he could pay them all equal respect.